Leaving Lucy Pear(92)

Lucy is wrong about the conductor. He is British. Thirty-one years ago he was hired to watch over a bunch of pear trees en route from Sussex to Massachusetts, and he never went home. He has worked as a water boy in the quarries, a messenger in Boston, a busboy in Providence, a conductor for the last fifteen years, always carrying things, or people. He knows where Lucy is. He noticed the boy alone, of course. He notices everything. He stops at the kid’s bunks. Hasn’t said a word. Doesn’t seem to know about the curtain. He’s lying there in full view, facing the window, not asleep—the conductor can tell by the stiff way his head doesn’t quite rest on the pillow. He hasn’t taken off his cap. Most people who ride the Pullman think it’s going to be their chance to play high class. Then he sees their faces change as night falls, sees their fear. He hears them call for the porters, a glass of water, an aspirin, this or that, and the porters think it’s despotism—which maybe in part it is—but the conductor knows it’s also fear. The ghostly shapes of trees, the moon behind a cloud, old stories of wolves. He lets the people be. By morning they have forgotten. They revise the night’s demons, boast to their fellow passengers how civilized it is, traveling this way. But the boy can’t be more than ten, maybe eleven. The conductor wasn’t much older when he left home. He rises on his toes next to the bunk and, though this is the porter’s job, asks quietly, “Is there anything you need?” After a pause, still facing away, the boy shakes his head. Black curls escape from his cap, snarled, but not dirty. Long. The conductor itches to touch one, pop it, see just how long. “I’ll be back in the morning,” he says. But he doesn’t go. He won’t go back to his compartment tonight. He’ll stay awake, watchful. He lifts himself closer. He murmurs, “It’ll be all right.” Then he pats the long pile of the kid, pulls the curtain, and snaps it shut.





Acknowledgments


For this book’s inspiration, thank you to my father, William Greenbaum, for telling me far-fetched stories about our family’s pear trees.

For help with research, Sarah Dunlap at the Gloucester Archives was unfailingly generous, creative, and prompt in her responses to my incessant queries. Richard Wyndham put The Saga of Cape Ann into my hands. Barbara Erkkila passed away before this book’s publication but spent hours talking with me about the old granite industry on Cape Ann; her book Hammers on Stone served as a critical text. Erik Natti and Scott Stewart took me straight to the quarries. Terry Bragg gave me a stirring tour of McLean Hospital. Zoe Argento shared her knowledge of the navy and brainstormed disastrous scenarios with me. Stephanie Buck and Erik Ronnberg at the Cape Ann Museum went out of their way to help. Many others shared what they knew: Ann Abrams, Annie Adair, Sarah Baer, David Bianchini, Joey Ciaramitaro, Marni Davis, Sarah Deutsch, Jody Georgeson, Sheryl Kaskowitz, Steve Ledbetter, Frederick Nowell, Ellen Smith, Andrew Todd. Others wrote books I returned to time and again, including Last Call by Daniel Okrent; History of Woman Suffrage and The Woman’s Bible by Elizabeth Cady Stanton; The Psychiatric Persuasion by Elizabeth Lunbeck; Hystories by Elaine Showalter; Studies on Hysteria by Joseph Breuer and Sigmund Freud; One Summer by Bill Bryson; The Jews of Boston by Jonathan D. Sarna, Ellen Smith, and Scott-Martin Kosofsky.

For space and resources: I began writing this book at the MacDowell Colony, wrote parts of it at Wellspring House, and received generous support during the process from the Rhode Island State Council for the Arts. Thanks also to the staff at the Sawyer Free Library in Gloucester, the Schlesinger Library at Radcliffe, and the English department at Brown.

For support, friendship, and good ideas throughout the writing of this book: Deborah Barron, Beth Bisson, Jenna Blum, Austin Bunn, Clare Burson, Chris Castellani, Deborah Cramer, Anne Deneen, Elyssa East, Eve Fox, Abigail Greenbaum, O’rya Hyde-Keller, Sheryl Kaskowitz, Rachel Kulick, Edan Lepucki, Julia Mitric, Rekha Murthy, Britt Page, Anna Painter, Yvonne Piccirillo, Heidi Pitlor, Eli Pollard, Mitzi Rapkin, Jane Roper, Avital Rosenberg, Kim Snyder, Amy Scott, Lawrence Stanley, Sarah Strickley, Beth Taylor, Marina Toloushams, Sarah Wildman, Samara Yeshaiek, Gina Zucker.

For reading early and late drafts with wisdom, honesty, and heart: Mike Burger, Eleanor Henderson, Hester Kaplan, Abigail Cahill O’Brien, Taylor Polites, Jessie Solomon-Greenbaum, Evelyn Spence, Lisa Srisuro.

Thank you to everyone at Viking who has poured their energy and time into bringing this book into the world. To Kate Stark and Lindsay Prevette and their teams, including Lydia Hirt, Mary Stone, Allison Carney, Meredith Burks, and Emma Mohney. To Brian Tart and Andrea Schulz for welcoming me to Viking. To Hilary Roberts and Shannon Kelly, as well as all the Penguin sales reps who championed The Little Bride and continue to support my work. To Sarah Stein, who believed in this book, made it better, and continues to shepherd it and me with wisdom and humor, I am ever grateful.

To my extraordinary agent, Julie Barer, thank you. And to everyone else at The Book Group, including Gemma Purdy, Meg Ross, Anna Knutson Geller, and William Boggess, thank you for making this business a pleasure.

Thank you to my family, for cheering me on no matter my mood. To my in-laws, Barbara and Andrew. To Alfie, Jessica, Charlie, Courtney, Pam, Anton. To Gajan and to my sisters, Jessie and Fara, sources of laughter and comfort. To my father, for always checking in. To my mother, Ellen Solomon, for her boundless encouragement. To Sylvie, for her insatiable curiosity and huge imagination. To Sam, for kisses and smiles. To Mike, for everything.